Free Caged Eagles by Eric Walters Page A

had a clear view of the top of his head. The overhead lights reflected brightly off his scalp. I also noticed that despite the room being far from hot, there were beads of sweat visible on the top of his head.
    â€œNumber,” he said without looking up from his papers.
    What did he mean by that? My father didn’t answer.
    â€œDo any of you speak English?” the man asked.
    â€œYes,” my father answered.
    â€œGood. Then I need to list your numbers … the numbers on your registration papers.”
    â€œAhh … yes,” my father answered. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his papers — bright pink papers. Pink meant that he was a naturalized Canadian. My mother retrieved her papers — also pink — and my grandmother’s, which were bright yellow and signified that she had never relinquished her Japanese citizenship. My father placed all three sets of papers on the table in front of the man. The little man took them and studied them; first one, then the next, and finally the third. As he held them I could see that his hands were shaking, badly.
    â€œWhere are his?” the little man asked, pointing at me.
    My eyes opened in surprise. I didn’t think he’d even looked at me.
    â€œI … I don’t have papers,” I stammered. “I’m only fourteen.”
    â€œOh,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s hard to tell the age of you people.”
    Without saying another word he put his head back down and started writing again.
    I watched as he made little notes and f lipped through papers and then started to copy down information from the registration papers. We waited silently.
    â€œHere, take these,” he said, handing my father the registration papers as well as another white sheet of paper on which he’d been making notes. “That will tell you which buildings you’re assigned to. As well, I’ve listed your children — given them a number.”
    â€œDon’t you need our names?” I asked.
    He looked up at me and shook his head. His eyes looked sad. “Names aren’t necessary. All we require to process people is a number. Go through that door,” he said, pointing to the end of the building. “Present these papers to the officers and they will direct you to your quarters … thank you.”
    My father rose to his feet and bowed slightly to the little man. His head was once again down, poring over the papers sitting on the table in front of him, and he didn’t even see my father’s gesture. My father helped my grandmother to her feet.
    As we moved I glanced back at the little bald man. I watched intently as he continued to shuffle and sort his papers. I was struck by the thought that he really wasn’t doing any work — he was just using the papers to avoid having to look at the people he was processing. Was that was why he looked so sad and nervous, and why he had been sweating? He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he was doing it anyway. As the next family filed in to take our place, they blocked my view of him. I knew he would have liked that — to be hidden. I suddenly felt very sorry for him.
    Up ahead, at the end of a short cobblestone path, stood two RCMP officers. In front of the policemen was a family. As we got closer I was surprised to hear angry words — an argument — between one of the Japanese and the RCMP. We stopped, down the way from where the discussion was taking place. My parents and grandmother looked away in respect.
    We were too far away to understand exactly what was happening. Yet I could clearly tell by the gesturing, the tone of the raised voices and the occasional word I could hear — mostly spoken by the father of the family — that things weren’t going well. Finally the family moved on and we came forward to take their place.
    â€œPapers, please,” the taller of the two officers